His Grandmother Always...

Category: Writing

…baked these cookies. Out on the farm. Oatmeal Raisin and she beat the egg whites until they were stiff, then folded them into the cookie dough at the end. I could never get it to work. They are supposed to be light and wonderful. Mine were always crumbly and messy. He never seemed to care, and he was beautiful to me. He just would just sit there with his two cookies on the plate in front of him, smiling like his soul had never been anything but six years old. As if he had never watched from behind the curtain as his grandfather threatened his stepfather with that pistol. As if he had never laughed through his tears while waiting on the hearse to arrive: “Just like Grandma to be late for her own funeral”. As if those crumbs in front of him contained all of the goodness that God forgot to give, but remembered to loan from time to time.

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